Chapter Five

The tight ropes bit into Charley Blackfeather’s wrists. He knew he was still in better shape than Captain Tom Dent, who—effective an officer as he was—did not have a lifetime’s practice sitting a trotting horse without using his hands. Nor were the bonds as abrasive as the insult that lay behind them, and the fact that the preening jackass Major Joab Putnam was lording it over them, all while basking in the so-called glory of his unprovoked attack on Old Mountain’s village. Charley had not even had time, before being bound, to ascertain whether Old Mountain was among the dead or wounded. Either way, the prairie was going to burn now, Stone Knife would make sure of it. Putnam would get his chance to fight Indians—really fight them, not just slaughter defenseless women and children.

They were headed back to the fort. Tom would get a court-martial, but, as an independent Indian scout, Charley doubted he would even get such a mockery of justice. He would likely be put up against a wall and shot as soon as they got there, as a lesson to other Indian scouts who would witness the event. While Charley understood Lieutenant-Colonel Vine’s desire to use his accumulated leave to visit his family, he wished the man had chosen a better time; Putnam had only recently been transferred to Fort Braxton, and no one had known yet what an idiot he would be once he was temporarily in charge.

Charley wasn’t sure whether Putnam’s decision to divide his forces was more evidence of his idiocy, or rather that his sense of self-preservation had kicked in. The Major had sent companies B and C and part of A out into the prairie to patrol for hostiles, as per his original plan, but had decided to personally take a third of company A back to the fort to deliver the “prisoners” Dent and Blackfeather, something he had originally said he could not spare the men for. Now he was at the head of a column of twenty men, riding away from the glory he had been so intent on finding. No doubt he had come to the same conclusion as Charley—that the Kiowas under Stone Knife, the warriors, would be hell-bent on revenge. So now he was using the insubordination of Charley and Tom as an excuse to slink back to the safety of the fort, bringing along a sizeable bodyguard to protect him along the way. Charley found this behavior almost as disgusting as the things the major had done previously.

Charley hoped his friend Tom Dent made it out of this situation with his life. There was little hope of him getting out if it with his career intact, not with Putnam no doubt pushing for the harshest punishment he could get. This was the second time Dent had disobeyed orders and refused to engage the inhabitants of a peaceful village. The first time, at Colorado during the war at a place called Sand Creek, Dent had the advantage of the attackers being militia whose actions were condemned by the regular army. But times had changed; George Custer had cemented his fame by attacking the Cheyennes along the Washita in a manner very similar to Putnam’s.

If there was one bright spot, it was that at least the verminous photographer Wil Marsh was not accompanying them to the fort. Dying would be just a little more unpleasant when done in such worthless company. Putnam had insisted that the photographer continue along with the main body, in his wagon, in case there was another engagement and pictures to be taken to further preserve the regiment’s glory. Marsh had seemed torn between the desire to keep his scalp and his desire to make a dollar—the dollar won, but Charley was not quite sure if that qualified as bravery or not.

Marsh did insist, however, on making one more image of Charley and Captain Dent before the force divided, this time bound on horseback.

“I guess the joke’s on you, you uppity black Indian,” Marsh had said. “Here you are headed back to the fort to get your neck stretched, and here I am stealing your soul at this delicate juncture by taking your picture.” Marsh chuckled to himself. “No Happy Hunting Ground for you, I suppose.”

Charley had scowled. “Oh, I’m worried about you stealin’ my soul, all right,” he said. “But it’s more from just bein’ in your presence than any cameras you might have.” Then Charley’s scowl turned into a chilling grin. “And my last thoughts will be sweetened by one thing—whatever’s waitin’ for me back yonder, rope or bullet, is a whole lot better than what you’ll get from Stone Knife if’n he catches you out on the prairie.” The photographer blanched, and it was Charley’s turn to laugh.

“No Happy Hunting Ground for you, either, Marsh,” Dent chimed in. “And if there is, you’re sure going to look funny with all those parts missing.”

“Go to hell,” Marsh had said, and stomped away.

So there was no need to listen to his smug voice on their trip to judgment. On the other hand, they were still stuck with, not only Major Putnam, but the strange little barber John Hix. Hix had insisted on accompanying the detail going back to the fort. Putnam had given in to the man’s demands easily enough—the barber was a civilian, after all, and no one could really figure out why he had volunteered to come along on an Indian hunt in the first place. Those who knew him casually from frequenting his shop knew that Hix had missed the whole Civil War, having spent it fruitlessly in the California gold fields and now obsessed by stories about the adventure he had missed, always pestering his customers for war tales. Most of the troopers assumed he had come along on this trip for the same reason, to see the elephant, and that the prospect of actually doing so had made him lose his nerve and be anxious to get back to safety. He was a scrawny, scraggly man—for a barber—and seemed pretty harmless. There were people in town, though, who knew that—when the chips were down—Hix had proven to be hard as steel. He was a strange man, all right, and Charley knew there was much more to him than met the eye. And more to his story. Charley did not trust him.

They made camp for the night. They were about halfway to the fort. Charley and Dent were grabbed roughly from their horses and forced to their knees; their feet were bound together.

“Best to hobble skittish ponies like these two,” Major Putnam said. “Else they’ll steal away in the night, eh, boys?”

There were a few murmurs of nervous laughter. Putnam’s men were clearly not finding any of his actions very funny, but most of them were afraid to let that show.

The major stood over his prisoners, smiling. “Mister Hix!” he said. “Perhaps you should give our prisoners one last shave before they face their fates.”

Hix seemed as nervous as everyone else. “Well, sir,” he said, “it’s nigh onto dusk and the light ain’t real good.”

“Oh, I was only jesting,” Putnam said. “And it would be tragic if you were to cut their throats before they could be stretched!” He laughed, although no one else did. He cast an irritated look at Hix. “You are a wet blanket, sir. Why are you even along, if you will neither shave in the dark nor participate in civil conversation?”

Hix shrugged. “Fact is, Major, I’m much in favor of civil conversation, and in a way that is the very reason I did come along.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The real reason I came along,” Hix repeated. “I’ve heard a lot about your exploits during the war, Major Putnam, and I have to admit I’m something of an admirer of yours.”

“You don’t say,” Putnam responded, suddenly very interested.

“Oh, yes,” Hix said. “And so youthful, just like Custer the boy general.”

“You flatter me, sir. Speak on.”

“Oh, for petesake,” Dent said under his breath.

Charley nodded. “The major could give Marshal Gardner a run for his money.”

“I hear that the company you commanded then sent many a Missouri bushwhacker to his grave, Major,” Hix said. “I heard you even dispatched one of Bloody Bill Anderson’s top lieutenants.”

Putnam’s chest had noticeably inflated. “Yes, that is true—more than one, in fact we caught half-a-dozen of the bastards in a crossfire and cut them down like dogs. I assume you’ve heard stories of how Anderson took the scalps of good Union men as trophies?”

“I’ve heard that, yes,” Hix replied. “How savage.”

“Savage, yes, but effective at striking fear into one’s enemies. Which is why, when we cut down those six comrades of the fiend, I had my men scalp each of them.” He leaned closer to the barber. “They gave one to me as a memento, in fact, Mister Hix. As a barber, I’m sure you’d appreciate such a close hair cut as that.”

Hix seemed to be as delighted as a child. “Oh, my,” he said. “Surely it’s too much to hope that you’ve kept that item in your possession after all these years?”

Putnam chuckled. “It is sort of a lucky charm for me, I go nowhere without it. I keep it in my saddlebag—it’s a fine red-headed specimen.”

“Could I—could I see it?”

The major appraised the eager barber for a moment. Finally he said, “Why, certainly you can. After I get a bite to eat we’ll walk over to my horse and I’ll give you a private viewing. Though it is barely light enough to see, now—perhaps by then we’ll have a bit of moonlight.”

“I’m in your debt, Major,” the barber said, “and am greatly obliged. I swear, I can’t hardly wait.”

“All in good time, my man.” Putnam turned his attention once more to his prisoners. “I suppose we can spare you two some rations, though I’m afraid you’ll have to eat them without the use of your hands.”

“We’ll manage,” Charley said darkly.

Putnam and Hix walked away, and a trooper brought some hardtack and shoved it into the prisoners’ mouths. They chewed on it carefully. Dent dropped his after finishing about half, and swore as he rolled on the ground trying to get his teeth around it. Charley did not drop his.

It was almost two hours later that John Hix came back over, and spread his bedroll on the ground beside the prisoners and climbed into it.

“Did you get to see your Rebel scalp?” Dent asked.

“Yeah, I seen it.”

“Was it everything you hoped it would be?”

Hix grunted noncommittally. “No different from any other,” he said. “But I did get a good story out if it.”

“Quit talking to the prisoners,” the trooper standing guard said.

Hix grunted again, then rolled over and was soon snoring.

***

Half-an-hour before dawn, everyone was woken by a commotion from the area where the horses were hobbled. Everyone except Charley, who had only dozed lightly off and on through the night.

“Wake up, wake up,” a sergeant was calling out. “Stand to arms!”

“Is it Injuns?” the newest guard said. “Are they attacking us?”

“They ain’t attacking,” the sergeant said, “but they’re here!”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, I ain’t seen ‘em.”

“Then how do you know they’re here?” asked another trooper, who tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes as he spoke.

“Because they’ve snuck in and kilt the major,” the sergeant explained, panic rising in his voice. “I stumbled on his body out yonder by where the horses are hobbled. His throat was cut clean as a whistle, and he was scalped.”

“Sweet Jesus,” said another man.

“There ain’t been no Indians in this camp,” Charley Blackfeather announced calmly. “Well, none ‘cept me.”

“Then how do you explain Major Putnam?” the sergeant said shrilly.

Charley smiled cryptically. “Major Putnam don’t matter—ʼleast, not to me.” His eyes flashed quickly toward the barber, Hix, who had sat up and was smoothing down his long, stringy hair. No one noticed Charley’s brief gaze except Dent. “We got bigger problems.”

“Bigger problems than a scalped major right in under our noses?” the sergeant said.

Charley nodded. “I said there ain’t been no Indians in this camp tonight,” he said. “I didn’t say there ain’t none around. There are—out in the darkness, all around us. Several dozen, I’d say, maybe as many as forty or fifty. Just waitin’.”

“Waitin’?” the soldier who had been on guard said.

Charley nodded again. “It’s about twenty, thirty minutes to daylight,” he said. “So it won’t be long till they come up and introduce their selves.”

“Are—are you sure?” the same soldier said.

“You know how good Charley is at this kind of thing,” Tom Dent said, and then held up his arms. “You’d best cut us loose, sergeant. We’ll be sitting ducks like this, and two more gun hands might make all the difference.”

The sergeant snorted, and forced a laugh. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Stand easy, boys,” he said to his men. “They’re just tryin’ to scare us into settin’ ‘em loose.”

“But somebody killed the major,” a trooper said.

The sergeant snorted again. “Yeah, there’s probably one or two Injuns skulking around—probably tryin’ to rescue these two. These two Injun-lovers. They’ve probably been in on the whole thing all along.”

“I don’t know,” the trooper said.

“It ain’t your job to know,” the sergeant said. “Your job is to do what I tell you. And what I tell you, all of you, is this: stand at the ready, just in case.” He shot an angry look at Charley and Dent. “But these two, we ain’t cuttin’ them loose no matter what.”

The sergeant walked away. John Hix jerked his head, trying to get Charley’s eye. Charley looked at him. Hix had pulled his straight razor, still folded, out of his pocket and was casually playing with it. The barber looked straight at the scout and whispered.

“When the time comes,” he said, “I’ll get you loose.”

Charley nodded slowly, and then looked intently into the darkness.

* * *

At the first hint of dawn, Stone Knife’s Kiowa warriors charged the campsite. The still morning air was broken by their war cries. Bullets thudded into blue-uniformed bodies, and arrows whizzed all around.

John Hix took a rolling dive toward the two prisoners, flicking his razor open as he came to his knees beside them. He had sliced through their bonds in seconds. While Charley and Tom rubbed their numb wrists, Hix took another dive, scooping up the sidearms from two fallen troopers. He tossed them to Charley and Dent. Quick as a rabbit, he ran past two other fallen troopers and grabbed their sidearms as well. A pistol in each hand, he ran toward the hobbled horses. He emptied one revolver into the screaming animals, dropping six horses with six shots. Hix leaped behind the first horse that stopped thrashing, using it as a fort and digging a box of ammunition from its saddlebags. Charley and Captain Dent ran toward him, doing the same thing. Soldiers fell all around them; a couple, including the sergeant, managed to take cover behind dead or dying horses.

A few Kiowas were dropped from their saddles, but the troopers were by far taking the worst of it. Dust and smoke swirled around them, and the barrage of gunshots was punctuated by the screams of the dead and dying. Then the Kiowas pulled away, just out of pistol range, to regroup.

Charley looked around. Five men lay behind dead horses: himself, Tom Dent, John Hix, the sergeant, and the trooper who had stood the last watch over the prisoners. The latter man had pushed aside a dead soldier who previously occupied his position behind the horse carcass but who had taken a fatal bullet. The sixth dead horse sheltered the corpse of another unfortunate trooper. Two other men were in the open, both of them fallen to one knee to make smaller targets; one of them had an arrow sticking from his leg. Both those soldiers, after pushing the corpse of their comrade aside, hunkered behind the sixth horse. The remaining horses had either been shot by the Indians or unhobbled and stolen. Charley had killed two Kiowas who let themselves be distracted by efforts to free the horses.

Dent called out in a worried tone. “Charley, you as low on ammunition as I am?”

“Yep,” Charley replied. “I reckon we all are.”

Even from this distance Charley could recognize Stone Knife. The Kiowa leader was prancing his pony back and forth, taunting them.

“Sweet Jesus,” the sergeant said. “Here comes some more!”

Charley tore his gaze from Stone Knife, whom he would dearly like to gut like a fish, and looked in the direction the sergeant had indicated.

“Looks like about thirty warriors,” Charley said. “About the same as what Stone Knife’s got left.”

The newcomers were not charging; they rode their mounts slowly toward the battlesite. Soon they were close enough for Charley to make out.

“If anybody was wonderin’ where the Cheyennes was,” he said, “that’d be them yonder.”

The Cheyenne leader lifted his rifle horizontally above his head and slowly rode forward while his men kept their horses immobile. After a few moments, Stone Knife did the same. Both leaders were riding towards the Company A survivors.

“Looks like the new one wants to parley,” Dent said.

The Cheyenne reined in his mount and called out to the troopers.

“Hear me!” he said, in clear English. “I am Strong Horse! Is that the one called the Black Feather I see among you?”

“It’s me,” Charley yelled.

It was Stone Knife’s turn to call out. “Black Feather is mine!”

Strong Horse came closer. “We must have more words,” he said to his Kiowa counterpart. “I have spoken to one who has been at Old Mountain’s camp, and learned much.”

“What is there to learn?” Stone Knife said. “The soldiers attacked a peaceful village, and killed many women and children and old people. And now we will have the beginning of our revenge.”

“Your father still lives,” Strong Horse said. “That is something worth learning. So does my daughter, thanks to the Black Feather, who saved her and sent her to safety. The one they call Dent—there—kept his men from killing our kin, and was punished for it. And the small man, the one who cuts hair, he bravely came to Old Mountain’s camp to help care for our wounded.”

Stone Knife was silent for several moments—he seemed to be shocked and speechless. He finally found his voice.

“Have my ears gone bad?” he said. “Are you telling me that—again—you want to rob me of my revenge because someone helped your daughter? Your daughter is nothing to me!”

“Nor is your father, it seems,” the Cheyenne said. “But my kin is all to me. I will claim as friends those who help them. These three, like the man at the ranch, are under my protection.”

“You—you would fight me, even me, your ally? For such as these?”

“You know I would,” Strong Horse said. “And, on this day, with the warriors I have, you know I would probably win.” The Cheyenne warriors rode forward to stand beside their leader, and the Kiowas did the same.

Stone Knife shook with frustration. He screamed his anger at the sky. Strong Horse watched him impassively.

Finally the Kiowa leader seemed to regain his self-control. He waved his arm at the soldiers.

“These white men,” he said. “These. They killed our kin, and yours. Do you protect them, as well?”

“I do not.”

The troopers’ faces fell. The sergeant’s eyes bulged. “Wait just a minute, Dent—Captain,” he said. “Did I hear these damn savages right? They’re gonna let you go but not us? You can’t let ‘em do that!”

Dent took a deep breath. “I won’t, sergeant, I promise.”

Strong Horse turned his mount to face them. “You three. Black Feather. Captain. Hair Cutter. Throw away your weapons and come stand with us, and you will live.”

“I’ll do no such thing!” Dent said. However, both Charley and Hix tossed their guns away.

“What are you doing?” Dent demanded.

“Gun ain’t got but one bullet left in it, anyway,” Hix said.

Charley stepped close to his friend. “Tom,” he said. “We outnumbered ten-to-one. We can all die today, or some of us can live. It’s that simple. Think on what you got waitin’ for you at home, and how much they need you.”

“While you’re at it,” Hix said, “think on how happy these men of yours was at the idea of hanging you, just a couple of hours ago.”

“They’re not my men,” Dent said absently. “The major made sure my men were far away from me. So I can’t hold it against them, they had no reason to feel any special loyalty to me.”

“Good Lord, Captain,” one young trooper said. “You can’t let ‘em!”

Tom Dent’s spine straightened. “I’d die before I’d let—”

Charley Blackfeather’s rock-hard fist lashed out like a bolt of lightning, catching his friend on the temple and instantly knocking him senseless. Dent collapsed like a sack of potatoes.

The sergeant screamed in fury, took a step toward Stone Knife, and raised his pistol. He was filled with arrows before he could pull the trigger. The sergeant sank to his knees, and his gun fell into the dust. Almost as one, Stone Knife’s men launched themselves from their saddles and rushed the other three troopers. A couple of shots were fired, but no one was hit; within moments each soldier had several Kiowas holding him immobile. That included the sergeant, who seemed to have some life yet left in him.

“I could not save you all,” Strong Horse said to Charley. “Nor did I want to.”

Stone Knife, too, had dismounted. “Very well, Strong Horse,” he shouted. “You will have these men, for today. I will take them some other day. This one”—he pointed at Charley—“is like a black feather on the wind, always blowing just out of my reach. He will live—today.”

“It is good,” Strong Horse said.

“But you must have your warriors restrain them. Because I want them to watch. I want them to see. I want them to know what fate awaits them.”

Strong Horse made a gesture, and several of his Cheyennes held Charley and John Hix, even though they did not resist—unlike the troopers, who were struggling, screaming, and crying.

“I never wanted to hurt nobody!” the young trooper said. “It was orders! It was orders!”

“Him, too,” Stone Knife said, pointing at the prostrate and unconscious Tom Dent. With a nod from their leader, several Cheyennes picked him up. Stone Knife slapped him twice, hard, and he came to and began struggling.

“Now,” Stone Knife said, and his warriors’ knives flashed, cutting the clothing from their captives, who were then tied spread-eagled to stakes that were driven into the ground.

Stone Knife stood defiantly before Charley, Dent, and Hix. “You will not escape this sight, not even in your dreams!”

“No!” Dent yelled, and lowered his head; a Cheyenne grabbed his hair and pulled his head back up.

The four troopers from Company A were mutilated and skinned alive. Dent cried and screamed as much as they did. Charley knew the other Indians were thinking that his friend was weak, but he knew what a brave man Tom Dent was. A man, perhaps, with too much heart.

For Charley’s part, he watched impassively. He had seen this sort of thing before, dozens of times in his fifty-plus winters. He had been on the administering side, although it had been a long while. Enduring torture is a warrior’s last weapon, his last chance to show the world his courage. It always disturbed Charley when the victims were from his own side; he resolved to avenge these four men, when the opportunity arose. Not because he cared that much for their fate—Hix was right, they had been champing at the bit to see him and his friend die, and each of them had participated in the killings at Old Mountain’s camp. No, he would avenge them because balance must be maintained. The same reason the Kiowas were killing them now.

Charley noted that the barber was also watching dispassionately. With some whites Charley would suspect shock, a stubborn refusal to acknowledge what was happening before their very eyes. But that was not the case with John Hix—he seemed almost bored. A couple of times the shadow of a smile passed across his face, as if he were also gaining revenge in some manner.

When the spectacle was over, Stone Knife shrieked in triumph and led his warriors galloping away. Twenty-one U.S. cavalrymen, counting Major Joab Putnam, lay naked and butchered on the prairie.

Strong Horse waved his arm, and his Cheyennes released Charley, Dent, and Hix.

“My debt to you is paid,” the Cheyenne leader said. “I will make sure Stone Knife does not double back for you, and I made sure he left you enough water. You have a long walk back to your fort, but you can make it by tomorrow. If I see you after today, I will be free to honorably kill you myself.”

With that, the Cheyenne abruptly wheeled his mount and sped away, his men behind him.

“Let’s go,” Dent said, his voice hollow. “I want to put as much distance between me and this—this whole ordeal as possible. We can send a burial patrol back for these poor men when we get to the fort.”

Hix walked over to the dead horses they had used as cover, and bent over. He straightened back up with something in his hand. It was a scalp, with long flowing blond hair. Joab Putnam’s.

“They missed this somehow,” he said. “This will make a nice memento.”

Dent shook his head. “We’ll see it gets buried with him. It’s more than he deserves, I know—this is all his fault.”

“What a waste,” Hix said.

“Sorry I had to knock you upside the head, Tom,” Charley said.

Tom shrugged. “I know you were saving me. But I wasn’t spouting nonsense. I really would rather have died with those men than live with the knowledge I abandoned them.”

“Are you sure about that?” Charley asked. “You seen how they died.”

Tom Dent paused. “No. No, I’m not sure. All I am sure of is this: when we get back to the fort I will be handing in my resignation.”

“You shouldn’t do that, Tom,” Charley said. “After all that’s happened, and with the major dead, I don’t think anybody is gonna be pursuin’ any charges against us for what we done at Old Mountain’s Camp. And this—well, this was Putnam’s doing, not ours.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Charley clapped his friend’s shoulder. “You study on it while we walk home, Tom. There’ll be plenty of time for thinking. Let’s go.”

They set off in the direction of the fort.

“At least it ain’t too cold,” John Hix said. “I always hated the cold.”

Charley decided to keep a close eye on John Hix, from now on.